


If You Walk Away, I Will Follow

by gaialux



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, M/M, Pillow Talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2015-08-19
Packaged: 2018-04-11 06:49:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4425509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaialux/pseuds/gaialux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Is what they're doing really right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Walk Away, I Will Follow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Taste_of_Suburbia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taste_of_Suburbia/gifts).



While Murphy sleeps, Connor traces the lines of tattoos and scars. They both tell two different sets of stories; one of protection and one of defence. It was Connor who first suggested tattoos -- the idea of Mary so Ma would be conflicted between ripping their heads off and taking pride in her boys retaining such strong faith. Murphy had gone first with the ink, held Connor's hand and almost broke every bone. Not that Connor really minded.

"I know yer not sleeping."

Connor's hand comes to a stop on Murphy's arm, over the Celtic cross they'd designed together years ago. It was based on something Murphy sketched in art back in  _An Chéad Bhliain_. They'd tacked it up on the wall between both beds and Connor said, that very night, "we can be joined with this."

"And why aren't you?" Connor quips back without much power.

"Yer fingers are cold." Murphy shifts and grasps Connor's hand, pressing it to Connor's own cheek. His reflex is to pull back at the feeling of ice but stays steady as a challenge. "See?"

"Don't know what yer talking about."

Murphy rolls his eyes and drops his grip. "Sure."

The lapse of silence isn't something that bothers Connor -- or Murphy for that matter. They can talk in silence. Another language as fluent as English, Gaelic, or Italian. Learnt as children, probably, back when Ma told them to shut up so she could watch her shows. "They're twins," she told the paediatrician who questioned their lack of verbal communication at two years old, "speaking their own language".

It was true, Connor thinks. True then and true now. And they caught up all right, didn't they?

"Hey, Con?"

"Yeah?"

Murphy shifts in Connor's arms until he's awkwardly staring up. The curve of his neck catching a ray of moonlight and making Connor's heart thump in his chest. They were twins, of course, but Murphy was always that much more beautiful in Connor's eyes.

"Remember Ramon Albertz?" Murphy asks. His gaze flickers away momentarily as he says the name.

"I do," Connor replies. More reflex than anything. It's only after he's spoken that the face of Ramon Albertz flashes through his mind. Gang leader in Boston who really wasn't worth their time, but crime's been slow lately and people are still dying. Albertz was providing enough drugs to take over a middle school at least -- and that was where they focused; on thirteen-year-olds carrying around ziplock bags filled with white powder.

Maybe Ramon Albertz and his gang weren't directly killing people, but they were destroying lives.

"Do you think we did the right thing?"

Connor is still looking into Murphy's eyes as Murphy says those words. He opens his mouth to say something back, but by that point Murphy's already on a tangent of tumbling words that don't seem to be able to stop.

"Because he wasn't all bad. He didn't kill anyone. But we took those guns and shot his head--and, Jesus, Con, what would Ma think of this? What would  _God_  or the  _Blessed Virgin think?_ Fuck. 'Thou shalt not kill', Con. Do you understand that?"

Connor kisses him.

Kisses him until they can't breathe and have fallen off the mattress onto the dusty cement floor. Connor's elbow collides with the harsh rock and pain surges up, but he can ignore it by twisting his hand in Murphy's hair and flipping them around. Murphy up off the ground, suspended above Connor and breathing hard in what seems to be a mixture of choked back tears and desire for more, more, more.

"Hey," Connor murmurs. He reaches up and slides a hand across Murphy's face, stopping at his lips and holding there. "We did the right thing. You know we did."

Murphy doesn't answer. His eyes refuse to focus. Murphy stares and stares and feels what he can't see until Murphy turns his head again and it's all there in those hazel eyes.  _I'm scared, Connor. I'm scared for our souls._

Truth be told, so is Connor.

"Remember the first night?" Connor says. His own voice feels foreign but he pushes through. "In the cell? We knew we were supposed t' do this.  _Destroy all that which is evil..._ "

" _...so that which is good may flourish,_ " Murphy finishes. He lets out a shaky breathe. Softly, slowly, he's the one that guides them back onto the mattress. It was Connor's, a twin, and they never upgraded to a double. Connor isn't sure why. It just never came up.

"He was hurting them," Connor says. "You know he was."

Murphy doesn't respond. He stretches out and the ripple of his muscles go along with the motion. Connor watches them, too. There are so many parts of Murphy that tell a story. And Connor doesn't want that story to end any time soon.

"Do you want to keep doing this?" Connor asks. He was going for a whisper but it seems to bounce and echo off the cold grey walls.  _Do you want to keep doing this? Keep doing this? Doing this?_

"No."

Murphy's word is an actual whisper. Connor can't breathe. The seconds -- or is it minutes? -- tick by and he can't find the right words to say. Not in any language he knows or even knows  _of_.

"If you want to leave," he finally settles on. Murphy's fringe flutters softly with Connor's breath. "Then we leave. Together."

"No." Murphy shakes his head. "What if God wants you t' do this?"

They've read the Bible back to front so many times. Some of their first strung together sentences were passages Ma read out and Sunday School repeated again and again. God smites evil, but then...but then Jesus comes to love and save them all.

"I think," Connor says. He swallows hard. "I think we're meant to do this." A pause, a beat, a drip of a tap. "But I'm not doing it alone."

From the window high above, Connor can see the moon. It's almost gone -- the cycle almost over so there's only a sliver of silver left. The stars still shine bright, though, and he and Murphy always preferred those anyway. They could guide you anywhere. They rarely ever changed.

"There's so much evil out there," Murphy says. "Boston, Ireland -- where do we stop?"

Connor shrugs. He doesn't know. In the Bible there were many different people to do all these things. It never fell on two brothers to rid the world of all evil. The most famous story of brothers, after all, was about the death of one at the hands of the other.

"We stop when God tells us to," Connor says. It's the only suitable answer. For anything in life, really. "Or when you want t' leave."

No answer. No response. Connor curls up closer to Murphy and doesn't ask him to make a sound. What needs to be said has been -- or will somehow ingrain itself in their minds and bodies like everything else. He closes his eyes and breathes out once, twice, before Murphy's hand takes Connor's and settles it against his heart.

They beat the same.


End file.
